


God Of My Idolatry

by Meduseld



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: First Time, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soulmates, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: The Deputy and Joseph find their way to each other.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed, Male Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	God Of My Idolatry

It takes Rook a long while to realize that Joseph is the smallest, of the three of them.

He’s so slight that gaunt might be a better word, and shorter besides. But that’s hard to tell.

He’d been in close quarters with all of them, but none of the others filled the space like Joseph. Because he has a _presence_.

It’s like a physical thing, coming off of him in waves like light.

Even now, a few rooms away, readying to do something stupid, Rook can practically feel him, the warmth of Joseph on his skin. But maybe that’s just him.

He doesn’t think there will ever again be a time when he won’t know exactly where Joseph is, like there’s a compass in his chest pulling him North.

It’s been there since the night Joseph pulled him from the river and John’s hands, pale in the blue light of dusk, and Rook had looked into his face and _known._

Rook had seen all of it, and Joseph had seen him see. That he was right: The Collapse was coming. God had spoken.

It was bone deep knowledge, as undeniable as the gut urge that had led him to Montana in the first place, to a county he could barely point to on a map.

Joseph had pressed their foreheads together in the frigid mud whispering that it was God that had brought them together, and Rook had said “okay, okay”. Like it was Joseph that needed to be gentled.

It hadn’t been easy, trying to figure it out. To get everyone to stop fucking killing each other and focus on survival.

For him, for Joseph’s awed gratitude at his acceptance, they’d toned down the preaching and the mutilations and gotten to some sort of cease fire.

He’d had to pay it back in kind. Joseph’s long lectures on the book and Jacob’s heavy step behind him, eyeing him like a meal.

Let John push ink deep into his skin, needles drawing stylized words of prayer and a leaping fish to remember the river.

To carve his sins onto his flesh, preaching with the zeal of a convert as Rook held it together without any restraints or Bliss to soothe it.

It had only been the once that he’d been given the Bliss for that, like a gift he hadn’t earned, Faith herself carefully tracing A-V-A-R-I-C-E down his spine as Rook sunk into the haze of drugs and God’s voice, filtered through Joseph’s fingers in his hair.

He still couldn’t figure exactly why Joseph had asked it of her. Or her of him. Maybe he just liked her handwriting better.

“God gave me you” Joseph had said and Rook had loved and hated it and known it was true. Known it was _right_.

It was Joseph he was meant for. Some wild secret part of him, like a broken winged bird trapped inside his ribcage, was soothed whenever Joseph touched him.

And Joseph touched him plenty.

Every morning, he brought their foreheads together, and every night. Put hands on his shoulders when he preached, or just when he passed.

A touch to his hips as he worked on the stove.

A tap on his knee when he preached to Rook from his book, all fiery conviction, a palm pressed and gone to his thigh or a thumb at the back of his neck as he drove along the winding Montana backroads.

Carefully untangling Rook’s sweaty locks of hair as he recovered miserably, on his stomach, from Faith’s gift.

Coaxing Rook to sing their songs, pleased he already knew them from the radio. Rook isn’t sure, but it’s possible that the Father himself stooped to sleeping in his small bedroom those nights, the way it always felt like he was there instead of down the hall.

Joseph had brought him home after they found each other by the river. He had lived there since, even when Mary May glared or Nick fretted.

Rook knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise, knowing Joseph might be far and in need of him. He had the feeling God wouldn’t let him die, at least not before Joseph.

Or The Collapse.

The troubling thing isn’t that Joseph touched his body like it was an extension of his own, intimate and certain. It was that it wasn’t the way Rook wanted to be touched.

Needed might be a better word.

Especially because, by his count, Joseph hasn’t touched him in 120 hours, give or take.

He’d idly noted that Joseph didn’t touch him the way he touched the others, the fatherly gestures for followers or brotherly affection he gave his family. Rook belonged to him in a way no one else did. Or ever would.

But he didn’t realize how much it had shaped him, become necessary until it went away.

It had been building, he could see that now. They fit, even if Joseph didn’t want to see how far.

Until they’d been in the doorway near dusk, Joseph ready to go inside and Rook preparing for a grueling perimeter run with Jacob, who sometimes tried to knife him in the ribs.

Lightly. Just to keep him on his toes.

Joseph had reached for his face, pulled it down to meet his forehead. And Rook’s hands had come up, settled on Joseph’s waist, the bones sharp and defined.

He was lean enough that the tips of Rook’s middle fingers almost met on his back.

It didn’t seem to matter how much Rook tried to feed him. Joseph burned hot and fast through calories. Through most things.

The temperature had dropped enough that Joseph’s breath on his face felt like fire, his eyes bright behind his glasses as they fogged them up.

Rook’s thumbs had moved restlessly up and down on Joseph’s taut middle, trying to match the feeling to the ink and scars he knew were underneath his shirt.

Joseph’s hands were tangled in the hair at the base of Rook’s neck, no longer pretending they were doing anything but enjoying themselves.

It had felt like they were the only two people in the world. Rook’s lower lip almost touched Joseph’s, contracting at the warm, wet feeling of the breath of his mouth.

He had almost moved, closed the distance.

And then Jacob’s goddamned Judges had begun to wail like tortured souls.

Joseph had taken a sudden, stuttered step back, hands tracing down Rook’s chest as they moved away.

He’d nodded as he’d moved into the house.

Rook had spent the rest of the night in such a dark mood even Jacob gave him a wide berth, the wolves snapping amongst themselves with the tension.

When he’d come home, the house was dark and drawn, even with dawn coming up behind him.

He knew Joseph was awake. That he hadn’t slept. And that Rook wouldn’t be welcome in his room.

That night, at least.

The morning had been strange. They hadn’t talked about it, not even obliquely, the way Joseph sometimes did, through veiled quotations of the Book or pointed songs.

But there were no more touches, just glances Rook couldn’t quite read, Joseph’s eyes murky behind his glasses. Almost longing, sometimes.

So Rook did what he always did.

Something so crazy it couldn’t be ignored.

At least this time it didn’t involve a rocket launcher. Even if it was supposed to be its own explosion.

It’s only a short walk from his room to Joseph’s little office, but he makes sure to take his time, makes sure Joseph’s eyes glance up then widen and drop back down to the paperwork he’s looking over.

Rook’s not wearing a single stitch after all.

Joseph’s lips work like he’s going to say something, then close like he’s thought better of it. Even if he knows how Rook gets when he’s ignored.

Today he’s feeling patient, calm as he leans against the nearby strategy table, lounging and crossing his legs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

It’s elegant and heavy, something that they had to have liberated from some boardroom ages ago. Maybe John lugged it in from Georgia.

It’s solid and strong enough to take Jacob slamming his fist down, over and over. Rook’s seen it himself. He gets invited to meetings, now.

Maybe Rook’s just an optimist, about what might happen on the polished wood today. But he’s not imagining the way Joseph keeps looking at him.

The little swallows trembling along his throat.

The constant crunch helps, keeping Joseph’s attention on him, especially when Rook licks at the trail of juice running down his forearm.

Okay, so the apple might be a bit much. But he couldn’t resist.

Joseph tends to the trees himself, a cluster of three that drops them strong and golden.

When he spins the core on the surface of the table, grinning with wet teeth, Joseph finally cracks.

He clears his throat, like he’s about to address the congregation.

“Have you considered that, if The Collapse were to come now, you would be caught naked and unprepared?” his voice comes out mostly steady, collected and practiced as ever.

His eyes betray him though. They roam up Rook’s body like he’s nourishment.

Rook laughs, relieved.

“We both know it’s not happening tonight” he says, voice light. It’s true. They _know_.

They’ve been chosen. They’ve been tied together. They need to start acting like it. Again, and entirely.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways” Joseph says, meeting his eyes at last. They’re burning. Rook enjoys the heat.

“Actually, I think the only mystery is why you’ve been reading the same page for the past ten minutes” Rook grins at him, uncrossing his legs and laying his palms flat on the table behind him.

Joseph’s jaw tightens, a muscle there jumping out, sinewy and rock hard.

Rook waits, for however this is going to go.

He wouldn’t even mind a beating, if he’s honest. Not with the way he grew up or the way most of his time in Hope County has gone.

He just wants Joseph to touch him. He gets it.

Joseph advances on him and Rook moves to meet him, hoisting himself up on the dark wood until his ankles are dangling over the floor.

Joseph’s hands, calloused and sure, take his knees and spread his thighs.

The right tightens on him, and the left moves gracefully over his skin, Joseph’s thumb skipping over the letters of L-U-S-T, dark on the softer skin on the inside of Rook’s thigh.

The word was carved there by Joseph himself, while Rook had held his breath and wondered what to pray for.

Joseph comes forward until their foreheads are touching and their breaths are mingling.

It’s now. It’s _time._

He’s ready for it, anything Joseph asks or requires. Desires.

Anything to finally bind their bodies together the way they’ve always been meant to, the way he’s slavering for.

Anything.

Then the one thing he never expected happens.

Joseph drops to his knees and takes Rook into his mouth like a sacrament.

And all Rook can do is cry out for God. 

**Author's Note:**

> This vibe for them is the reason my tag for them [became God Gave Me You](https://meduseld.tumblr.com/tagged/god%20gave%20me%20you). But the title comes [from Romeo & Juliet](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/romeojuliet/page_86/) and the bulk of this came from Greg Bryk [being hot on _Frontier_](https://youtu.be/DIkbStBaOuc?t=36). And while [120 is an important biblical number](https://www.biblestudy.org/bibleref/meaning-of-numbers-in-bible/120.html), that’s only 5 days Rook, chill.


End file.
